At first around my waist, gradually sliding down to my butt, Jack’s hand guided me through what seemed like countless doors and long corridors. The click of my heels and the sway of my hips displayed a confidence I had not yet earned. Like a virgin acting like a sexpot, down deep I knew I was a fraud, a fake, just a wanabee whore. It wouldn’t take much to reignite the worries and fears I had felt initially when Jack’s creepy telephone voice was booking our date.
So when Jack ushered me, the nervous Nellie, into the inner sanctum of his executive suite and locked the door behind us, one of my heels snagged the edge of an Oriental carpet. I would have fallen had Jack not steadied me. All the lady-like poise I had spent months, even years, cultivating quickly melted into embarrassment…and, yes, fear.
“Maybe I should call Marvin…” I stammered and reached into my purse for the cellphone. “… And tell him I’m here.”
“No need to do that, Joyce.” He handed me an unsealed envelope. “Put this in your purse instead.” My fingers opened the envelope and flipped through the bills — four $100’s and one $50. Just as Marvin — the escort service owner and so, yes, my pimp — had said it would work! My estrogen-patch-addled bimbo brain didn’t even have to remember to ask for the money!
What exactly was Jack buying for $450? I wasn’t yet sure. That was my appointment rate set by Marvin. For that amount, the client could have up to one and one-half hours of my precious time. If the client wanted additional time, it would be at the $300 hourly rate. Overnight rates could be negotiated.
Everything had to be prepaid, either by credit card over the phone with Marvin or by handing cash directly to me. If the latter, I would deposit Marvin’s one-third directly into his bank account the next morning at a bank branch most convenient to me.
I’ll tell you more about Marvin later, but at that particular moment I was in awe. He had thought of everything — as slyly clever as any Wall Street hedge fund manager. By paying upfront, the client could never be undercover police because that would be entrapment. And by coordinating all the logistics of the appointment through Marvin’s office, I was reasonably safe: if I didn’t report in by phone in exactly one and one-half hours, Marvin would send one of his assistants looking for me.
Marvin had the address. He had the client’s phone number, maybe even credit card number. Marvin knew everything. My fate was in his hands. Suddenly I had a glimpse of the legendary power of a pimp: Marvin had become my God-like protector.
Of course, Marvin at this very moment could not prevent Jack from raping me, killing me, then cutting me up into tiny pieces. But if Jack was rational, he knew he would never get away with it….right?